


Yeah, Dude, You Are (Fucking Crazy)

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Ableism, Blood, Borderline Personality Disorder, Eating Disorders, M/M, Medication Talk, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Stigma relating to mental illness, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, [Mac voice]: THIS IS NOT SEXY!, please let me know if I've neglected to add any pertinent tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: Inside Dee’s medicine cabinet is an orange bottle labeled "DENNIS REYNOLDS," with the address to his and Mac’s now-burned-down apartment printed underneath. Inside an idiot doctor’s office in Center City — in a file labeled "Reynolds, Dennis" — is a note on a chart, diagnosing him with Borderline Personality Disorder. And now, inside Mac’s head, and inside Dee’s head, is the idea that Dennis Reynolds is crazy.Maybe that’s why it keeps happening: because his friends all think he’s crazy.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 8
Kudos: 120





	Yeah, Dude, You Are (Fucking Crazy)

**Author's Note:**

> Important note: Dennis doesn't realize it, but the things he says in here about BPD are wrong. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) is an evidence-based treatment for BPD, developed by Marsha Linehan, a psychologist who had BPD herself.
> 
> also, TW:  
> \- discussion of ED behaviors (restricting/fasting, binging and purging)  
> \- canon-typical abusive dynamics between Mac and Dennis (including physical abuse)  
> \- vague references to abuse/CSA by a parent  
> \- stigma/ableism related to mental illness  
> \- blood/bleeding

When Dennis slams back into his body, he finds himself flat on his back, looking up at the hideous yellow overhead light of Dee’s kitchen. Mac is sitting on top of him, his weight and hands keeping Dennis pinned to the floor, his nose dripping blood all down his face and onto Dennis below him.

Mac’s chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, and his face is flushed with exertion. He’s watching closely, and must notice a change in Dennis’ eyes or facial expression. It’s eerie how good he can be about noticing when Dennis isn’t really there, and when he comes back. Sometimes, he catches the shift before Dennis is fully aware of it himself.

“You done?” Mac asks.

Done with _what?_ He’s not entirely sure yet, but he nods in agreement anyway. Anything to get Mac off and away.

Mac scrutinizes Dennis’ face for another moment — no doubt telling himself he’s “doing an ocular pat down” to determine the risk of Dennis throwing any more punches. (This, Dennis presumes, is what led to Mac’s bloody nose.) The blank look Dennis forces onto his face must be convincing enough, because Mac carefully backs up and off of him.

The tile floor suddenly feels cold, and the water stains on the white ceiling above stare down, mocking Dennis. Without the warm weight of Mac pressing down on him, Dennis is aware once more of the empty, aching feeling of his God Hole gnawing away in his chest.

Mac is waking away. Mac is leaving. Leaving Dennis to lie on the hard tile floor. Leaving him to be eaten alive, swallowed whole from the inside out by this dark, cavernous expanse inside of him, right where a heart should be.

Lying on the floor is becoming painful. Dennis sits up and takes in the state of the kitchen: chairs and table pushed askew, ceramic shards of a mug scattered across the floor, a puddle of coffee around it, and the coffeepot sitting cold and empty on the stove.

He kicks lightly at the nearest chunk of periwinkle ceramic on his way out of the kitchen. The door to Dee’s bathroom is ajar, light flooding out into her darkened bedroom. Mac stands before the mirror, holding a wad of bloodied toilet paper to his nose.

With a sigh, he looks over to the doorway, where Dennis quietly lingers. “What?” he asks, exasperated.

Dennis doesn’t know what to say. “You’re bleeding,” is the first thing that comes out.

“Yeah. No shit,” Mac spits, his voice slightly nasally. He tosses the wad of toilet paper into the toilet next to him, and yanks a bunch more fresh paper off the roll.

“What, um…” Dennis runs a shaky hand through his hair, and swallows around the painful lump in his throat. “What happened.” His voice is flat and his question comes out sounding more like a statement.

“What do you think?”

Dennis should be able to piece it together, but it's still mostly blank. He vaguely remembers throwing a mug. Mac probably told him off for it. He must have hit Mac, or punched Mac, or something.

“I don’t—” Dennis crosses the threshold at last, and steps closer. “Looks bad. Mac, I…”

“You can’t punch for _shit,_ Dennis,” Mac barks, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “And thank God for that.”

It’s painful to remain silent, but Dennis charitably resists the overwhelming urge to point out that God has nothing to do with this. It wouldn’t do to add insult to a literal injury by criticizing Mac’s religious delusions while the man's covered in blood.

Mac pulls away the toilet paper and checks his nose again. It looks like the bleeding has stopped quickly enough. He chucks the bloodied paper into the toilet bowl. The loud flush reverberates throughout the little bathroom.

As he scrubs the blood off his hands, Mac glances at Dennis’ reflection in the mirror. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says over the sound of the running water.

“I know.”

“Like, I know I’m a tough guy, and I can handle it, dude. I totally can. But… it just feels really shitty, you know? And I hate—I don’t wanna have to… to manhandle you to get you to—” Mac stops and clears his throat. He turns off the tap and dries his hands off on Dee's raggedy hand towel.

“You gotta stop, Den.”  The intensity of Mac’s stare is unnerving.

Dennis has to look away.

That's when, at last, he notices the red marks around his wrists. They're vaguely sore, as are his ribs and back. It feels good knowing Mac’s not the only one in pain right now — like maybe it’s not so bad to hurt Mac if Dennis ends up getting hurt in the process, too.

“Why does this keep happening,” Dennis asks quietly.

“You know why.”

Dennis doesn’t know why, and Mac doesn’t, either. Mac only _thinks_ he knows why.  Because inside Dee’s medicine cabinet is an orange pill bottle, labeled _DENNIS REYNOLDS,_ with the address to his and Mac’s now-burned-down apartment printed underneath. Inside an idiot psychiatrist’s office in Center City — in a file labeled _Reynolds, Dennis_ — is a note on a chart, diagnosing him with Borderline Personality Disorder. And now, inside Mac’s head, and inside Dee’s head, is the idea that Dennis Reynolds is crazy.

Maybe that’s why it keeps happening: because his friends all think he’s crazy. Any reasonable person would be pissed off by that. Maybe taking a swipe at his best friend is going too far, but the gang have always done things by extremes. And it’s not like he and Mac have never thrown punches before.

“You keep pissing me off,” Dennis concludes.

There’s an awkward pause, as if Mac wasn’t expecting that answer. Of course he wasn’t. What was he expecting? A confession? Self-recrimination? An admission of insanity?

“Seriously. I’m not crazy, Mac. You just keep pissing me off. _All the time,_ and I don’t know why. I don’t understand it. Why do you keep doing it?” He still can’t bring himself to look at Mac, and he knows it’s obvious, but that doesn’t make the idea of eye contact any more bearable.

“Are you seriously pinning this on me, dude? Come on," exclaims Mac, throwing his hands up in the air. "You’re pissed off all the time lately — about, like, everything and _nothing._ It doesn't have _shit_ to do with me. You tried to break my fucking nose just now, ‘cause I asked you to eat something. _Yeah,_ you’re fucking crazy! I’m tired of beating around the bush.”

_“I’m_ crazy? You’re the one who’s trying to control me, and tell me when I should and shouldn’t eat,” Dennis shouts.

“You haven’t eaten anything today, Dennis. You barely ate yesterday or the day before... I mean, I barely see you eat anymore.”

(Mac’s wrong: he snuck off to binge and purge the other day, but Dennis would fucking die before admitting that. And fuck Mac for reminding him about it.)

“So, what? You’re keeping track now?” Dennis demands. “Like _that’s_ normal?”

Dennis can feel himself raising his voice. He knows he’s getting worked up again, which doesn’t help prove his point. But Mac is insufferable. Sometimes the best bet is to provoke Mac into anger, too. That way, Dennis either looks calm by comparison, or he looks like he’s only reflecting Mac’s anger back at Mac.

The problem is that Mac doesn’t always rise to the bait.

“Yeah, I keep track,” he snaps. “You know why? ‘Cause I know you, and sometimes I think if I didn’t, you’d starve yourself to death. How many times have we been through this, man?”

Mac likes to talk about Dennis dying. He gets weirdly emotional about it, too, because he doesn’t realize how wrong he is. Dennis isn’t dying; he’s thriving.

“A golden god doesn’t need—”

“No. Stop it. I don’t wanna hear that shit. You’re not a god, okay? You don’t even believe in God. Now will you please just _eat_ something?”

Arms folded tight across his chest, Dennis glares at him. “No, I’m not gonna ‘just eat something,’ Mac. I’m fucking fine, and I don’t need to eat, and I don’t need this shit from you. Why don’t you get that? I’m so fucking pissed off at you right now, and everything is just... such _complete shit,_ dude. You think eating’s gonna make that better? It never does.”

Mac regards Dennis with his best _dude, you’re insane_ look. “It sure isn't gonna make things _worse._ Like, dude... Eating has nothing to do with any of that."

Dennis holds his breath, because it feels like the only way to keep himself from screaming. Once again, Mac has no idea how wrong he is.

"Besides, you’re probably just super hangry,” Mac adds on lightly. “That never helps anything.”

“Don’t say ‘hangry,’ Mac. That’s the stupidest goddamn word. I’m just _angry,_ okay. Regular angry, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you, and I’m tired of Dee, and I’m tired of everyone. Everyone’s just pissing me off lately, just... all the goddamn time. And everything’s too fuckin’ loud and bright and just... it's just _too much._ I just wanna—I just wanna go home and sleep in my own room, in my own bed. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“Oh,” Mac murmurs. “Oh, no, Dennis, I totally get that, bro. I wanna go home, too. But not eating isn’t gonna make that any better.”

“Yes. Yes it is!”

Mac frowns in obvious bewilderment. “How? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I _told_ you. Everything is just... so goddamn much all the time. But not when I... You wouldn’t get it. It just—It makes everything quiet the fuck down, just for a little bit.”

Mac hums thoughtfully.

The tension and pain is building in Dennis’ shoulders and the back of his neck, the unwelcome beginning of an oncoming headache. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck, if you think I’m crazy now, just imagine how bad I’d be eating three meals a day.” He laughs bitterly into the palms of his hands; drags them down his face; and lets them drop, exhausted, by his sides.

“I dunno, Den," Mac replies, uncharacteristically calm and level. "You’d definitely feel a lot more better physically. Like all that shit the doctor said was wrong with you, when you took me for that physical? The anemia and the low blood pressure and everything? That's from not eating, bro. Plus, if you ate more, you wouldn’t be as, um... People get grumpy when they’re hungry, Dennis. They _do._ And if you—” Mac pauses for a moment and sighs. “I know you’re tired of talking about this; but honestly, dude, if you just _tried_ the meds—”

“I’m not taking the meds, Mac. I’ve told you, the guy’s an idiot. Anyone who tries to medicate someone for a condition they don’t even _have_ —? They’re a fucking idiot, dude. Plain and simple.”

Mac fidgets uncomfortably. “You know, I actually looked it up, Dennis. The Borderline thing he says you have.”

Dennis scoffs. “Of course you did.”

“Yeah, and, uh. It actually sounds a lot like you?”

He glares incredulously at Mac. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah! I can’t remember all the symptoms, or whatever. But dude! Feeling numb all the time is on there! It's on the list! Your God Hole, Dennis? How many times have you talked about not having any feelings? That’s a _thing,_ bro; it’s an _actual thing._ It’s not just you!”

Mac incorrectly interprets Dennis’ angry silence as permission to ramble on, so he does exactly that. “Being angry a lot, that’s on there. Um, mood swings? Being impulsive? Like, self-destructive... _stuff,_ or whatever. Like food stuff, or drugs, or like sleeping around—"

"Fuck you," Dennis interrupts, the words flying out of his mouth before he realizes what he's saying. Mac has never been eloquent, but surely there's a better way to approach this, a more sensitive way to accuse Dennis of being mentally ill. Besides, being a whore isn't a mental illness; Mac, of all people, should know that.

"Dennis, seriously. I don’t understand all the shrink talk, if I'm being honest. But the things I do get, I’m reading them, and I’m thinking, ‘holy shit, that’s Dennis!’ And I get that you don’t want it to be, ‘cause, like, _yeah,_ it sucks. But don’t you get it, dude? If you know what the problem is, you know how to fix it.”

Dennis silently glowers at the idiot in front of him for a long moment. He's so enraged he can barely breathe, much less speak. Finally, it bursts out of him: “There’s no cure for personality disorders, asshole!”

“What?” Mac looks like the rug’s just been pulled out from under him. “No, that can’t be right.”

“It is, so just drop it, okay? Or if you really want to diagnose me with a mental illness, pick something better. Something that’s not such a fucking life sentence.”

“But what about the meds? They’re supposed to make things more better.”

“Stop saying ‘more better,’ you asshole," Dennis shouts. "It’s just 'better!' Good, better, and best.”

Mac reacts like he’s been slapped again, his face drawn into a childish pout, his eyebrows furrowed. Still, he remains mercifully silent.

“Jesus, Mac," Dennis spits out, his voice dripping with disdain. "They give meds to people who are dying. It doesn’t mean it’s a cure. It’s called ‘palliative care.’”

So much for being numb all the time. Speaking these words aloud fills Dennis with a sharp pain — splitting him straight down the middle, like he's being rent in two by the horrible admission. He's not sure whether the hatred and rage he's feeling are directed at himself, at Mac, at that piece of shit psychiatrist, or at whichever piece of shit first decided that people like Dennis are beyond hope and beyond help.

“Don’t say that, Dennis," Mac insists. "Don’t say that about yourself. Besides, you’re wrong, ‘cause I looked up your med, and it’s not a—whatever you said, for people who are dying. It’s supposed to make your moods more bet—uh… more best? And, like, make them more stable or whatever.”

“That was a metaphor, asshole. And I’m not taking the fucking meds, so just drop it.”

“At least tell me why. You’ve never said why.”

“I don’t have to give you a reason," snaps Dennis. "It’s my life, and it’s my body. It’s none of your goddamn business.”

“It became my business when you started hitting me," Mac says firmly.

It feels like having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. It's intolerable: Mac being angry, Mac calling him out on his shit. Mac getting sick of putting up with him, Mac leaving—

"Come on," Mac goads him on. "Can you honestly tell me that you like living like this, and feeling like this? Or that you don’t have a problem with the way things are going?”

“I’m not crazy, Mac. I’m fucking perfect. I’m—”

“If you give me your golden god speech again, I swear to Christ, dude..." Mac shakes his head. "Look, you gotta do something, because with the way things are going—”

“What if they help?” Dennis blurts out.

“What?” Mac stops short. He apparently wasn’t expecting this, which is stupid, because isn’t this the most obvious problem?

“What if the meds help?”

“If they help, then great," Mac exclaims. "That’d be awesome as shit, dude!”

“If they help,” Dennis explains through gritted teeth, “then that means I was crazy the whole time. And I’m not crazy, Mac.”

Mac scrubs a hand down his face with a sigh. “Dennis, you’re _acting_ crazy, dude. Batshit crazy. The meds aren’t gonna _make_ you crazy. If anything, they’re gonna make you _less_ crazy. Just try them, okay? It doesn’t have to be forever. Just give it a day or two.”

“What if I just stop hitting you instead?” Dennis asks in a small voice.

“That’s a really fucked-up bargaining chip. Meds or no meds, you gotta stop, dude. You really have to stop.”

Dennis can feel his heart racing faster and faster. This is it, surely. Even Mac was bound to reach his limit eventually.

“Are you gonna leave if I don’t?”

“I won’t have to. Because you’re gonna stop,” Mac answers.

“But what if I can’t? What if I can’t stop? Like, not just that, but any of it?  What if the meds don’t work? What if I just keep getting… more and more and more… like _this_ until one day… I don’t know. I don’t know what, but—What if, huh? There are some things drugs can’t fix, Mac. What if everything’s just too fucked-up?”

Dennis knows he’s spiraling. Again. _Still._ He can feel it in his body. He knows he’s working himself into a panic, which will become a full-blown panic attack. He imagines himself throwing things again, throwing punches again, leaving his body until the feelings pass. He imagines Mac restraining him, so he doesn't hurt either of them too badly. _Of course_ this isn't what Dennis wants. Why would it be? But if he's aware that it's not what he wants, why hasn't he stopped yet?

That's the problem, isn't it? It’s not that he lacks insight and awareness; so how can he be crazy? Is it crazy if he knows what he's doing, and just can’t bring himself to stop?

Continuing to exist as he is and trying to change seem equally impossible. On days like today, life in general seems like far more trouble than it's worth. Lately, Dennis has been struck by the persistent fear that it might be easier to simply die. He doesn’t _want_ to, though; he just wants the shit to stop. But how?  How can he make that happen when he feels so trapped and sees no way out?  It seems hopeless, caught as he is in this dizzying cycle — spending day after day being tossed from unbearable numbness to overwhelming emotion.  More and more often now, the emotions flood his senses like a riptide dragging him out to sea. Dennis has the sinking feeling that one day, even Mac won't be able to anchor him to reality and pull him back to safety.

Suddenly, there are warm, calloused hands on either side of his face. Mac repeats his name, urges Dennis to stay calm and to stay with him. They both know where Mac got this method; they both know he stole it outright from Dennis.

Dennis really ought to patent this system before it’s too late, because there must be something to it. Gradually, he becomes aware of more than the terror racing through his veins. H e feels Mac's thumbs brush soft across cheekbones. He sees Mac's deep brown eyes searching his face and looking deep into his eyes.

“Hey, look," Mac murmurs, "just one thing at a time, okay? One day at a time. It’s gonna be okay. I've got you, y'know?”

Dennis shakes his head rapidly, moving Mac's hands back and forth with him as he does so.

Still, listening to Mac’s calm voice offering such an absurdly simple answer is somehow helpful. It's reassuring, in its own small way. Dennis can feel his breathing, heart rate, and panicked thoughts slowing down.

“Why the fuck do you even care so much,” he asks at length. “I mean, if you don’t like the way I am… why don’t you just leave?”

Mac drops his arms, and takes a half-step back. “You know why,” he responds cryptically.

He won’t look at Dennis as he says it, and that’s how Dennis divines the true answer. That's how Dennis knows Mac means it. Because of that, and because he can’t even say the words. Those three little words that hang in the air between them, embedded into so many of the quiet little things Mac does for him every day.

Those three stupid goddamn words hang over their head like the fucking sword of Damocles. Even if they never speak about it or examine it closely, surely they both sense its presence.

So it wasn't hard to guess the answer to his question. Dennis shouldn't have even needed to ask.

(Dennis has to ask. He needs to know that Mac is still there for him, and that Mac's feelings remain the same. He needs reassurance that he's not delusional on top of it all, imagining ominous swords and passionate affairs where none exist and none ever will.)

_You know why,_ Mac tells him, those three words a stand-in for another three.

He's told Dennis once before, but words  lose meaning when you say them. Meaning and power. Sometimes, the more often you say something, the less you mean it.

Sometimes, those words were a lie to begin with, even if you didn’t realize it until decades after you'd started telling that lie. Sometimes, you don’t realize until years after the other person has died. You never meant it; you only thought you did because you were told that you did. You only thought you did because it was all you ever knew. His and Dee’s mother is a skeleton in a grave, and she was a bad person who—

She hurt people, and Dennis never—

It was good that she was dead, because it wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t okay, even if Dennis will never admit that out loud.

Sometimes it’s not a bad person, though. So you say the words to her, because what harm could it do? Except you’re still only saying it because you know you’re supposed to mean it. But saying it doesn’t make you mean it. Saying it doesn’t make it true. Words aren’t a magic spell; there’s no such thing as magic. Dennis never loved Maureen.

It’s stupid for so few words to hold so much power, to contain so much meaning. Three little words. Eight tiny letters.

Dennis can count on one hand the number of times he’s said those words in his adult life. It takes even less fingers to count the number of times it has been said to him by anyone other than his disgusting mother.

The thing about Mac is that he means it, even when he doesn’t say it. Or again, maybe it’s precisely _because_ he doesn’t say it that Dennis knows he means it.

One of the more maddening aspects of this melodrama playing out between them is Mac's stubborn insistence on remaining in the closet. A closet with glass doors, at that. He seems to believe Dennis would freak out upon learning that Mac is gay. Except Dennis already _knows_ that Mac is gay, and he doesn’t give a shit. Dennis isn't exactly straight himself, but Mac seems all too eager to feign ignorance on that point.

On top of all that, Mac seems to believe Dennis would panic if he knew about Mac's attraction to him. Except Dennis knows about that, too. He knows not just because he's aware that _everyone_ is attracted to him, but because he knows _Mac._ He knows everything about Mac. He knows Mac inside and out — better than Mac knows himself.

And while Mac may think he knows Dennis in the same way, there's one thing Mac doesn’t know: the idea of Mac not wanting Dennis is the most terrifying possibility of all.

The nagging fear that he's misconstrued Mac's feelings for him sends Dennis into a tailspin on a regular basis. He tallies up the evidence, both for and against. It fills up countless pages in his psychological dossier on Mac. Every time those feelings of doubt arise once more, they hit him full force, just as strongly as they did the first time. His heart races and his stomach drops like a lead balloon. Because the terrifying reality is that sometimes, Dennis suspects he doesn’t know how to relate to people who aren’t attracted to him.

—

The next morning, Dennis takes the medicine bottle out of the cabinet for the first time in months. He sets it down on the coffee table as he and Mac sit on the couch to drink their coffee.

“Oh,” Mac says quietly, almost reverently.

He takes out a pill and hands it to Dennis without another word. Dennis takes the pill, and chases it down with bitter black coffee.

Mac pulls him close with an arm around his shoulder.

All in all, it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. Yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, full disclosure: I wrote this at least six months ago, but held off on posting it for this long bc I wasn't sure what sort of message it sent. (I'm still not sure tbh.)
> 
> I don't want it to seem like I'm justifying or romanticizing Dennis' abusive behavior, bc there's no excuse for it. This is not a depiction of a healthy relationship, although that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who's seen It's Always Sunny.
> 
> You cannot love someone into not abusing you. (@Mac)
> 
> This is also not meant to imply any sort of correlation between having BPD and perpetrating abusive behavior, bc fuck that generalization. And, again, Dennis is wrong about BPD.
> 
> iirc, I wrote this after "The Gang Escapes," which I found deeply disturbing and triggering. I knew it probably wouldn't happen in-canon, but I wanted to see Mac stand up for himself (and/or to see someone stand up for him). I wanted to see him tell Dennis, basically: "you can't fucking treat me like that."
> 
> Anyway, this has been an unnecessarily long end note, but I have a lot of feelings. Please join me as I continue to scream into the void about these garbage ppl: @chrundletheokay on tumblr


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